Charlie came by my house the following day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Every day for two weeks and two days. He came at different times, but always looked the same—fingers tangled in his brown curls, eyes darting across the upstairs windows. I wanted so badly to go to him, to hear him say that he’d made a mistake and wanted me, but there was no guarantee of that dream and I wouldn’t subject my shattered heart to a conversation to the contrary. Instead, I’d watch him come up the walk every day, flattening myself on the cushion of the window seat when he got close enough to see me. Alevia had fabricated an excuse the first time—that I was ill and resting. The rest of my family had thankfully followed suit.
I’d barely moved since waking the morning after the party. But it wasn’t only sadness that paralyzed me; it was also inspiration. I wanted, needed, to write. From sunup to sundown, words poured from my mind. I wrote until my fingers could barely move from their clutch on the pencil and my brain began to confuse sentences. I wrote twelve columns for the Bronx Review, I wrote about my family, and when I couldn’t put it off any longer, I began to write about Charlie. It started because I knew someday I’d forget what it felt like to be in love, to have him in my life—the comfort that came with his friendship. I could already feel his absence, and unable to bear it, I wrote down every daydream, all the things I’d always hoped for our future. By the time I was done, I’d written a book—about imagined adventures overseas, a pleasant domestic life surrounded by family and art, and finally, a parting at death that made me ache.
I stared at the words “The End” as if they were an inscription on a gravestone—an irreversible statement that at last forced me into the real world to face the truth of his betrayal. I ached for the words I’d written to come alive, to transform this bleak reality, but they never would. Charlie, my perfect match, had deserted me. Without him my dreams of love and marriage and children and art could never be. No one else had the same mix of passions and I wouldn’t resign myself to someone lesser for the sake of companionship.
I set my notebook down and thumbed through the latest Scribner’s Magazine. My fingers paused on a story from Octave Thanet—otherwise known as Alice French—titled Stories of a Western Town. She was criticized in some circles for hiding her identity, for choosing to remain a spinster, but she’d always been an inspiration to me, a woman who’d successfully broken through the iron gates of masculinity to grace the pages of the country’s finest literary magazines. Charlie had known of my admiration, and after my fifth rejection from the Bronx Review—the day after the Review hired him for his drawings—he dragged me down to the library. Though I’d always been resilient, this time I’d thought to give up writing. It seemed impossible that someone could see past my gender. Charlie had made me sit at reception while he disappeared into the bowels of the library, returning with copies of Thanet’s stories, The Bishop’s Vagabond, Knitters in the Sun, and We All. He’d forced me to read them, sitting silently beside me until my defeat began to crumble.
I stood from the window seat and closed the magazine. There was no use in recalling our memories, the occasions I’d mistaken for love. My legs wobbled with disuse and I ran a hand through my greasy hair. I had no idea what day it was, only that today was ending. The sun was setting through the naked chestnut branches. I yawned, glanced down at the walk, and flung myself onto the floor. Charlie. He’d seen me this time, I was fairly sure of it, and I crawled to the foot of my bed knowing the only way I could avoid him was to hide. Mae had come up yesterday to say she was tired of covering for me. Franklin had said the same, practically begging. “Gin, he needs to talk to you. He looks awful,” he’d said. At the time, my brain had been churning with words I needed to write, so I’d barely heard him. “Did he change his mind about Miss Kent?” I’d turned to look at my brother who’d stared back at me saying nothing, but whose eyes said no. “Then I don’t care.”
Charlie banged on the door below my window, shaking the walls. I could hear Mae’s footsteps, quick and light, coming from the study on the opposite side of the house where she’d been writing her thesis and preparing lessons to teach the orphans at Saint Joseph’s Asylum, as she did every Friday afternoon before attending her evening courses. I knew this week at the orphanage was especially important as Mae’s benefactor and frequent volunteer, Mrs. Greenwood, would be in from her country home in Millerton. Mrs. Greenwood had noticed Mae’s passion for teaching two years ago, and insisting that New York needed educators like Mae, had offered to pay for Mae to attend college.
I sniffed at my skin, revolted by the oniony musk radiating from it. I couldn’t figure how I’d been sweating. We’d gone through the last of our coal and wood days ago. The house was frigid.
“Mae. Please. I know she’s here. I saw her this time. Let me in.” Charlie’s voice was soft and desperate. I pressed my palms to my ears to drown him out. I could so easily give in to his distress.
“Charlie, you know we all love you, but I can’t.” I could hear Mae’s high-pitched voice through my hands, and let them fall to my lap. “She . . . she doesn’t want to see you.” I knew it pained her, but relieved that she was going to turn him away after all, I took a deep breath. Avoiding him was torture, but I didn’t want to face him—maybe ever. Mae yelled Charlie’s name, and I heard something crash to the floor and shatter.
“Sorry! I’m sorry,” he said. He must’ve pushed past her. I threw myself under the bed. His footsteps pounded up the stairs and I curled into a ball hoping he wouldn’t look for me.
“No,” Franklin said abruptly. His voice was close, probably coming from the landing, and I squeezed my eyes shut, thankful for my brother’s presence. “You can’t.”
“Let me go, Frank,” Charlie growled. I could hear them struggling against each other, the banister screeching as Charlie tried to shove past him.
“Leave . . . her . . . alone,” Franklin breathed. “You’ve chosen.” The commotion suddenly stopped and Charlie groaned.
“Ginny! You have to talk to me. Please,” Charlie yelled. “You can’t discard me so quickly.” His footsteps retreated slowly down the steps and I crawled out from under the safety of the bed like a hunted deer emerging from the brush.
I stood before the mirror, staring at the startling vein-snaked eyes and pale skin that hadn’t seen sun in weeks. Charlie and I argued constantly, but the last time we’d fought to the point of jeopardizing our friendship I’d been seven, standing in this exact spot. His younger brother, George, had just died and Charlie had been a wreck for weeks upon weeks, blaming himself for George’s death because he’d been there to see it. I’d been there, too—walking home from sledding in Bathgate Woods Park with Charlie when George, who’d decided to sled down a small hill half a mile ahead of us, plunged into the street in front of a fast-moving sleigh. There was no way he could’ve saved him, but Charlie kept blaming himself until he was so gripped with grief that he couldn’t move, just sitting in his room, barely blinking and staring at the empty bed next to his own. Each day, when his mother finally made him get up, he’d come over to sit on the edge of my bed and cry—until the night I told him that George had always been easily bored and unless Charlie stopped weeping, George would grow tired of watching over him and would move on to someone else. I’d meant to make Charlie laugh, mostly because I’d watched him weep for weeks and couldn’t take his grief any longer. But the moment the words came from my mouth, I knew it had been the wrong thing to say. He’d yelled at me and threw my dressing chair across the room, shattering my window.
I couldn’t help but smile thinking of that fight now, though it had been one of the darkest moments we’d ever shared. I stepped closer to the mirror, inspecting my face and soul for any trace of the little girl I’d once been. I could barely remember her, though if I concentrated I could feel the unbridled freedom of chasing Charlie and Franklin around the house while performing a play I’d penned about Buffalo Bill, or running into the Harlem River with my siblings, Charlie close on my heels. In those days, I didn’t worry about my life, or what I’d make of myself. No, in those days my only thoughts were how long it would take for my body to warm to the cool water or if I was fast enough to catch the boys. I turned to the window, toward my notebook full of memories, determined to go back in time. My bones ached from sitting, but I sat down anyway and opened the cover.
The door flung open, smacking against the wall, and I turned to see Franklin glaring at me, lips pressed in irritation. I stared at him, blinking desperately in an attempt to clear the haze of the last few weeks. “You look terrible,” he said. One of his hands snatched the pale pink sleeve at my wrist as the other yanked the leather-bound notebook from my fingers. I lunged for it and he pushed me away. “Honestly, Gin. I’ve never known you to wallow in misery, and I’ve had enough. So has Mae. If Mother hadn’t been in the city for Alevia’s audition for the last week, she would’ve dragged you out of your room days ago, so I’m going to do it for her.”
My brows rose. “Is that so? I’m quite heavy.” I was amazed at how strong my voice sounded after days of neglect. “I’m fine, Frank. Truly. I’ve just been writing. And well, I might add.” I picked at my nails, noticing the dead circles of dry skin on my index finger. The blisters had popped up about the fourth day, but I’d simply gripped the pencil with my fingertips and continued.
“I don’t care. I’ll not have you wither away in seclusion like that Dickinson woman.” I laughed and he looked at me sharply. “It’s not funny, Gin. I’ve never in my life seen you so affected by anything. You’re a strong person. Talk to him and move past this. For my sake if not for anyone else’s. I’m tired of fending him off.” Franklin sighed and lifted his hand to rub his eyes. His fingers from nails to knuckles were streaked with black and blue paint.
“Who’ve you been painting?” I asked, walking over to my armoire. Though Franklin couldn’t afford to devote all of his time to painting, his portraits were incredible, somehow capturing not only a person’s likeness, but the character as well. He stretched his hands out in front of him and grinned.
“Oh. Just Mae. She’s the only one home save you. Bess has been in the city most days, measuring the society ladies for winter hats.” He yawned. “It’s been so tiresome watching Mae study all weekend. I don’t think I’ll ever understand why she’s so enthusiastic about teaching.”
“How can you not? It’s the same as you with your painting, me with my writing, Alevia with her playing, Bess with her—”
“Yes, I see.” Franklin cut me off, eyeing the robe draped over my arm. “Thank god you’re taking a bath. You smell terrible.” I rolled my eyes and started down the hallway.
“So do you,” I called out. “Though in your case I don’t think you can help—”
“Virginia.” Charlie materialized from nowhere, grabbed my hand, yanked me into my mother’s room, and shut the door. The last word of my retort to Franklin caught in the back of my throat, choking me. I swallowed it away.
“How’d you get in here?” I asked evenly. Wedged in the narrow doorway, I could feel the heat of his body inches from mine and smell his light piney sweat beneath his jacket.
“Funny, Gin,” Franklin yelled, having no idea I’d been detained on my way to the bathroom. Charlie didn’t respond and I pushed past him, lunging for the door, but he seized my shoulders and pulled me back into the room, hands digging into my skin. I hadn’t looked at him yet, beyond a glance when he’d startled me, and didn’t now as I shoved against his chest, trying to free myself.
“I waited until Mae went back to the study and Frank went into your room,” he grunted, struggling against me.
“What do you want? Fra—” I started to scream for my brother, but Charlie’s hand clamped across my mouth and forced my face to his. I closed my eyes.
“Ginny, please,” he whispered. “Can’t you just look at me?” I swallowed hard, let the tension drop from my shoulders, and opened my eyes. His eyes were rimmed with black circles so dark they made the green seem luminous. The hair on his face was long, save a patch on the right side of his chin where he’d never been able to grow it. I must’ve winced, because he loosened his grip on my shoulders. He looked almost as awful as I knew I did. “That bad?” he said, and laughed under his breath. His fingers peeled back from my mouth, sliding slowly over my lips. I closed my eyes, letting my head drop onto his chest. His heart thumped wildly against my ear—a complete contrast to the hands slowly tangling in my hair and drifting up and down my back. I felt drowsy, as though I could fall asleep against him, but he shifted suddenly, smoothed my hair back, and kissed my forehead. As if his lips had broken some sort of spell, I jerked away from him. I couldn’t believe I’d let him touch me, that I’d forgotten his abandonment so quickly. I crossed the room to the rippled glass window, past the photo of my father as a young man wearing my grandfather’s Union army jacket on the dresser, knowing that if my father had been here he would’ve been furious with Charlie and demanded I stand my ground.
“Ginny, I’m sorry.” I didn’t turn around, but stared out at the night sky and then down to the darkened window of the Aldridges’ library. I’d noticed that the library lamps hadn’t been lit since the party, and hoped that his lack of work had something to do with missing me, that he couldn’t create without confronting my memory. “You’ve been avoiding me. I’ve come to see you every day.” I pinched my eyes shut and lifted a shoulder. “Why? Where . . . where have you been?” With you, I thought, remembering the lifetime I’d written in my notebook.
“I was writing,” I said. “Why are you here?”
I turned to face him. He stared at his hands, opening and closing his grandfather’s pocket watch at his hip, hair hanging in his eyes. I could see his profile in the mirror on top of Mother’s armoire, his straight brows pinched, full bottom lip clutched in his teeth.
“I . . . umm,” he mumbled, then looked up at me. Nerves curled in my stomach, forbidding the rest of my body to move. I stared at him—at the somber eyes and lips that had paused on an unspoken word. He held my gaze. “Ginny, I love you.” His words shocked my heart and warmed me through. I’d wanted to hear him say it for so many years, sentiments I’d long felt but propriety forbid me to say. He wouldn’t marry Miss Kent. He loved me. He’d come back to me. I reached down to take his hand. Clammy with sweat, his fingers were limp against mine.
“Charlie,” I whispered. “I love you, too. I always have.” He smiled thinly and looked down at our linked hands. “What is it?” He squeezed my hand so hard I flinched, and hugged me.
“I love you, Gin,” he said into my hair, “but I . . . I have to marry her.” I pushed him away and he stumbled back, catching himself against the wall.
“No, actually. You don’t. You coward!” Heat burned my cheeks. He’d given me hope only to crush it once again. “Why would you bother coming here? Why would you tell me you love me if it doesn’t matter?” I snapped, backing away from him. “To make yourself feel better?” My hands clenched at my side. His eyes were glassy, but I didn’t care. I wanted to hurt him as much as he’d hurt me. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and stared down at his shoes. “You can explain yourself or you can get out,” I said. Physically too weak to yell at him, anger still churned through me, stealing what little strength I had. Charlie straightened and started toward me. I put my hand out to stop him.
“Ginny, you know we don’t have any money.”
“We don’t either,” I said. My neck felt tight. “We barely have enough to spare for food by the time our bills are paid, but we’re happy. How does that—”
“I . . . I haven’t told you everything.” He cleared his throat to compose himself. “Mother and Father . . . when they got married they didn’t have the money to buy a house. My father’s uncle, Harry, offered to buy it for them on the condition that they’d pay him back. It was working out fine, but now without Father, we can’t afford it. The Review pays so minimally for my drawings that we’re four payments behind. Harry’s company folded a few months back. If we don’t reimburse him in full by next month, he’ll have to sell the house. Mother won’t have anywhere to go. If I marry, we’re saved. The initial three thousand from Rachel’s father will pay Harry off and then when I inherit the estate and ten thousand from Rachel’s family—”
“I don’t want to hear her name,” I said. He tried to take my outstretched hand but I snatched it away. “Don’t touch me.”
“I don’t love her,” he whispered. “My heart. You have it.” He put his palm on the silk above my chest.
“Then marry me instead and risk ruin,” I said. “We could find other jobs. Your mother could move in with us if she had to.” I removed his hand from my chest, feeling the cold air rush over my skin with its absence. He didn’t say anything, but closed his eyes and shook his head.
“You know she’d never agree to that,” he said finally. “Our home is all she has left of my father, of George.”
“Then you’ve made your choice.”
“No. I can’t. I don’t want to lose you . . . please, Gin.”
“What would you have me do? Wait for years until Rachel dies? Be your mistress?” He looked up from the floor and his body went rigid.
“I know that I can’t will you to do anything,” he said softly. “You’ll do what you want. You always have.” I laughed hollowly and caught a glimpse of my reflection as I turned away from him, stringy hair and ashen face harrowing in the dim evening light. I was a mess. Everything Miss Kent wasn’t. I pivoted to face him. His shoulders were slumped, the dark rings around his eyes even more pronounced than before.
“I’ll see you around the neighborhood, of course,” I said as pleasantly as I could. Charlie had been as much a part of me as I was, but the man standing before me was foreign, a stranger to my soul. Charlie’s brows furrowed and he crossed the room, gathering me awkwardly in his arms. I stood against him, puppet-like as he hugged me. “You need to go now.” I untangled myself from his embrace. He backed away, staring at me as he went, and then finally turned. “Take care of yourself, Charlie,” I whispered. As the door clicked shut, I stood in my mother’s room alone, regretting my words and wishing that I could have been weak enough to keep him.